...

Her father sat there stunned, his heart aching as he held her trembling form. He hadn't realized just how much pain she'd been carrying, how much she'd hidden behind her brave little smiles. He blinked, swallowing hard to keep his own emotions in check. She was just a child, his little girl, and she'd been fighting this battle all on her own.

He took a deep breath and pulled her closer, resting his chin gently on her head. "Delia." he said gently. "Sweetheart, you listen to me right now. You are not the worst little girl in the world. You're my daughter, and you're perfect just the way you are."

"But-"

"No buts." he interrupted, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. His gaze was firm but kind, his hands cupping her cheeks so delicately. "You're not perfect because of grades or friends or anything else. You're perfect because you're you. And nothing, nothing, you do will ever make me or your mama stop loving you. Do you understand?"

Delia shook her head, tears still falling. "But I messed up... I lied, and I-"

He pressed a finger gently to her lips. "We all mess up sometimes. That doesn't make you bad or unworthy. It makes you human. And you don't have to pretend to be okay just to protect us. That's not your job, sweetheart. Your job is to be a kid. To try your best and let us help you when things get hard."

Delia's lip quivered. "But what if I'm not good enough?"

Her father forced for her a sad but understanding smile. "You're already good enough, Delia. You're more than enough. You're kind, and smart, and creative, and the fact that you care so much about others, even when they hurt you, shows just how amazing you are. But you don't have to go through this alone anymore, okay? Mama and I are here for you. Always."

Delia stared at him, her tears slowing as his words began to sink in. "Really?"

"Really." he promised, brushing one of those tears tear from her cheek. "And tomorrow, we'll talk to your teacher, we'll make a plan, and we'll take it one step at a time. You don't have to be brave on your own anymore, okay?"

Delia hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay."

"That's my girl." he said, wrapping her in a hug so tight it felt like it could shield her from the whole world.

A moment passed before he scooped her up into his arms, cradling her as though she were still that tiny baby he'd once brought home from the hospital. He carried her out to the car, and even after the short drive, even after they pulled into the driveway, he didn't let go, lifting her again as if the weight of her pain could be eased simply by holding her close.

He kept his expression calm, though the sight of the red handprint on her cheek sent anger simmering beneath his composed exterior. Delia rested her head against his chest, clutching at his shirt as though afraid he might let her go.

Once inside the living room, he gently set her down on the couch, crouching so they were at eye level.

"Delia..." he began, soft but steady. "Can you tell me what happened?"

She looked up at him, with those wide, red eyes. Her bottom lip trembled again, as it always did when she was anxious, but she nodded. "It's... it's Jeremy." she whispered, barely able to get the words out. "He doesn't love me back."

The words stabbed at Michael's heart, but the pain was quickly replaced with a deep, protective fury. Jeremy? He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his tone measured. "Jeremy?" he asked, carefully. "Is he the one who..." He gestured gently toward her cheek.

Delia hesitated, then nodded, her tiny hand brushing over the red mark. "I... I tried to give him a box of clementines." she murmured. "But he got mad... He said I was weird, and... and then..."

She trailed off, unable to continue, her face crumpling with fresh tears. Michael felt his fists clench involuntarily, but he forced himself to relax them. Now wasn't the time for anger. His daughter needed comfort, not more fear.

He pulled her into his arms again, as she sobbed against his shoulder. "It's okay, sweetheart..." he said, stroking her hair.

For a moment, they stayed like that. Michael's mind raced with questions, but he pushed them aside. He needed to focus on Delia first.

As the front door opened and the sound of keys jingling echoed through the house, Michael looked up to see his wife stepping inside. Her smile faded the moment she saw Delia's wollen eyes and the handprint on her cheek.

"What happened?" she asked sharply, dropping her bag and rushing over to them.

Michael met her worried gaze, his own expression grim. "We need to talk." he said quietly, his arms tightening protectively around Delia. "About what happened at school."

Ophelia's eyes widened, and she crouched beside them, her hand resting gently on Delia's back. "Sweetheart, are you hurt? Did someone do this to you?"

Delia didn't answer right away, her fingers clutching her father's sleeve tightly. Michael exchanged a look with his wife, his anger barely contained now.

"Jeremy." he said, his voice low. "She said it was Jeremy."

Ophelia's face darkened, a rare storm cloud passing over her usually calm demeanor. "Jeremy?" she repeated, her voice sharp with disbelief. "What exactly did he do?"

Michael shook his head, his voice softening as he looked down at Delia. "We'll figure it out," he promised his daughter. "We're going to make sure this doesn't happen again. I promise. And sweetheart?" he added, crouching to meet her gaze when she sniffled. "Go rinse your cheek in the bathroom while I talk to your mother, alright? It’ll help with the sting."

Delia nodded, her lower lip trembling, but she didn’t say a word. She clutched the fabric of her skirt as she turned and hurried toward the bathroom, grateful for an excuse to leave the weight of her father’s concerned gaze behind.

Inside the bathroom, the quiet felt heavier somehow. Delia stared at her reflection in the mirror, the faint outline of the handprint still visible on her reddened cheek. She swallowed hard, the sting of the slap still fresh, not just on her skin but in her heart.

Turning on the faucet, she cupped her hands under the cool stream and splashed water on her face. The shock of it made her gasp, but it dulled the heat in her cheek, if only a little.

"Delia?"

The voice was soft, hesitant.

Delia looked up, startled, and there she was: Dusk. She floated closer, her usually mischievous eyes wide with worry.

Delia blinked, and new tears spilled over despite herself. She wished she could stop crying, wished she could be braver. "Dusk..."

Dusk didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t need to. Her gaze flickered to Delia’s cheek, and her expression darkened with an emotion Delia rarely saw on her face: anger. But instead of speaking, Dusk simply floated closer and wrapped her arms around her.

Delia stiffened at first, but then she melted into the embrace, burying her face against Dusk’s shoulder.

"You don’t have to say anything." Dusk assured. "I know. I’m here."

The hug was warm, weightless, like being wrapped in a comforting breeze.

After a moment, Dusk gently pulled back and placed a cool hand against Delia’s cheek. It wasn’t cold like water or ice: it was soothing, like a gentle mist. The throbbing ache in her cheek eased under Dusk’s touch, and Delia let out a shaky breath.

"There." Dusk said quietly, brushing Delia’s cheek now. "Better, right?"

Delia nodded, with a bit of trouble. "Thank you."

Dusk smiled faintly, her usual playfulness returning, though her eyes still held a protective gleam. "Nobody gets to hurt you, Delia. Nobody."

Her expression had become more soothing as she looked at Delia, but beneath her calm exterior, there was something else. Something darker. A shadow of fury simmered just beneath the surface, but it was hidden, subtle.

"Come on." Dusk prompted, as she guided Delia out of the bathroom and back to her room. "Let’s do something fun, okay? Forget about today, just for a little while."

Delia hesitated, glancing toward the closed living room door where her parents were undoubtedly discussing what had happened. But Dusk gave her a small nudge, and her presence was so reassuring that Delia couldn’t help but follow.

Once in her room, Dusk zipped around, inspecting the room. "Alright. What do you feel like doing? Drawing? Building something? Or..." She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Should we make a fort?"

Delia blinked, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. "A fort?"

"Obviously. The grandest fort ever! Pillows, blankets, maybe even lights if we’re feeling fancy." Dusk grinned, though that odd gleam in her eyes remained.

Delia nodded slowly, her spirits lifting just a little. "Okay... A fort sounds nice."

Dusk immediately got to work: she pulled blankets from the bed, threw pillows onto the floor, and even managed to balance a sheet between the bed and the desk chair, creating a cozy little hideaway.

"Perfect." she declared, dusting her hands off as she admired their handiwork. "The Queen of the Fort shall now take her throne."

Delia giggled faintly, crawling into the fort and sitting on a pile of cushions. Dusk joined her, of course. For the next hour, Dusk kept the little girl distracted. They told silly stories, doodled little pictures on the walls of the fort with washable markers, and laughed over nothing at all. For a while, the weight of the day seemed to fade away.

But... every now and then, Dusk would glance toward the door, her eyes narrowing slightly. The side of her that wanted Delia to be safe at all costs was still there, lurking. She wouldn’t act on it, not now. Not while Delia needed her to be the light in the room.

The following morning, gravity rose again just as the sun did in the Carter household. Delia's cheek was still tender, though she insisted it didn't hurt as much. Michael and Ophelia exchanged a glance over breakfast: this wasn't something they could ignore. By the time they arrived at the school to speak with Delia's teacher, they were prepared to get to the bottom of things.

As they sat down in the small, tidy classroom, Mrs. Carter explained what had happened to the teacher. "Jeremy... hurt Delia yesterday. We wanted to ensure this is addressed appropriately."

Mrs. Taylor looked startled and concerned. "Oh dear. I wasn’t aware of any conflict. But... I have to tell you, Jeremy wasn’t in school that afternoon."

The room fell silent for a moment.

"Not in school?" Michael frowned. "What do you mean? He was here earlier in the day, wasn’t he?"

Mrs. Taylor nodded slowly. "Yes, he was present in the morning, but by lunch, he was... gone. We assumed he’d gone home early. I was planning to check in right now."

Ophelia's face tightened. "We need to find out what’s going on. Can you call his parents?"

Mrs. Taylor agreed, dialing the number while the Carters waited anxiously. After a few rings, Jeremy’s mother answered. Her tone was cheerful at first, but it quickly turned to worry as the teacher explained the situation.

"What do you mean he wasn’t at school?" Jeremy’s mother exclaimed. "We dropped him off just like always!"

A tense conversation followed. Jeremy’s parents insisted they had seen him off in the morning, and now, the realization that he hadn’t returned home a few hours before hit like a thunderclap. The Carters watched as Mrs. Taylor's face paled.

"Let’s not panic yet..." Mrs. Taylor said, her voice shaky but attempting to remain calm. "I’ll notify the principal, and we’ll organize a search. He could still be nearby, maybe with friends..."

However, as the minutes passed, it became clear no one had seen Jeremy since lunchtime that day. Teachers and staff scoured the grounds, checked every classroom, every corner of the playground, but there was no trace of him.

Michael and Ophelia exchanged troubled looks. Ophelia put a hand on Delia’s shoulder, whispering: "Sweetheart, did you see him at the gate?"

Delia shook her head, her stomach twisting. "No... I didn’t see him."

As the search continued and the police were eventually called, Delia stayed quiet, a strange unease growing inside her. She didn't think about Dusk, not even the way her expression had darkened the night before.

Because surely... surely that wasn’t possible.

The school buzzed as news of Jeremy's disappearance spread, but nothing could have prepared them to what happened next. Rebecca, who had last been seen laughing and gossiping with her friends, was discovered in the farthest corner of the schoolyard. She was slumped against a tree, her body trembling, her eyes unfocused.

One of the teachers found her during a check of the grounds for the little boy and immediately called for help. Paramedics arrived quickly, lifting Rebecca onto a stretcher as concerned students and staff gathered at a distance, whispering and speculating.

When Rebecca’s parents arrived, their faces were pale with shock. "What happened to my daughter!?" her mother demanded, tears streaming down her face.

"She’s... she’s hurt." the paramedic said carefully, avoiding specifics. "Physically, her injuries are minor, but... there’s something else."

Rebecca's condition baffled everyone. She didn’t seem to recognize her parents or respond to their frantic questions. Her expression was blank, her movements slow and clumsy, as if her mind had been wiped clean. She muttered strange, nonsensical phrases under her breath, nothing that made sense, nothing they could understand.

"She was fine this morning!" her father shouted. "How could this happen? Who did this to her!?"

The principal assured the family that the school would cooperate with the investigation, but no one had answers. Rebecca was rushed to the hospital, her condition labeled as "critical but stable."

In the aftermath, rumors spread like wildfire. Some said Rebecca had been attacked by an animal. Others whispered about bullies taking things too far. But one thing was clear: Rebecca was no longer the same girl who had mocked and played just the day before.

Michael and Ophelia sat at the kitchen table late into the night, voices hushed but filled with a mix of worry and paranoia...

Ophelia cradled a mug of tea, her fingers tracing its rim. "How did we miss it, Michael? She’s been carrying so much on her little shoulders, and we didn’t see it. How could we not see it?"

Michael reached for her hand, even though his own emotions churned beneath the surface. "We saw it, Ophelia. We just didn’t want to believe it. She’s always been so bright, so resilient. But she’s a little girl. She shouldn’t have to be so strong."

Ophelia blinked quickly, willing back tears. "And now this? Jeremy missing, Rebecca... hurt like that. How do we explain this to her? Or do we even try?"

Michael shook his head, his jaw tight. "We don’t. Not yet. She’s too young to carry that kind of weight. What she needs right now is distance. A fresh start."

Ophelia’s lip trembled, but she nodded. "You’re right. A new school, new friends. Somewhere quieter. But Michael... she’s going to ask why."

Michael exhaled deeply, glancing toward the hallway where light spilled from beneath Delia’s door. "We tell her the truth, just enough. That we think it’s time for a change. She doesn’t need to know everything. Not when she’s already carrying more than she should."

Ophelia leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "Are we doing the right thing?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Michael kissed her temple softly. "We are."

The next morning, Delia wandered into the living room, her hair tousled from sleep and her expression curious. She paused when she saw her parents sitting together on the couch, their faces calm but unusually serious.

"Good morning, sweetie." Ophelia said, patting the spot between them. "Come sit with us. We want to talk to you about something."

Delia hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable. Slowly, she climbed onto the couch, glancing nervously between them. "Am I in trouble?" she asked nervously.

"No, my little sun." Michael shook his head. "But there’s something important we need to talk about."

Ophelia took her hand, her voice soothing. "Your dad and I have been thinking a lot about school lately, and we’ve decided that it might be time for you to go to a new one."

Delia’s eyes widened. "A new school?"

Michael hesitated, searching for the right words. "We think it might be good for you to have a fresh start, Delia. A place where you can feel happier and meet new people."

"But I can make friends at my school!" Delia said quickly, her voice trembling. "I’ll try harder, I promise. I’ll be better-"

"Oh, darling, no." Ophelia interrupted, pulling her into a hug. "This isn’t about you trying harder. It’s not your fault."

Michael leaned in as well. "You are already enough, Delia. More than enough. I've told you. This isn’t about you doing anything differently. It’s about finding a place where you can just be yourself."

Delia’s chest tightened as she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. "But what if I can’t make friends there either?"

"You will." Michael replied firmly, resting a hand on her back. "And even if it takes time, you won’t be alone."

Taking a deep breath, Delia nodded against her mother’s shoulder. "Okay..." she concluded, though uncertainty still gnawed at her. "If you think it’s best."

Later that day, Delia sat on her bed, staring out the window as the weight of her parents’ decision settled in her mind. She didn’t hear the flutter of wings until Dusk appeared, landing silently beside her.

"You’re moving schools?" Dusk assumed.

Delia's fingers twisted anxiously in her lap. "Mama and Daddy think it’s for the best."

Dusk tilted her head, watching her carefully. "And what do you think?"

"I don’t know..." Delia admitted. "Maybe they’re right. But I’m scared. What if no one likes me there either?"

Dusk moved closer, and she wrapped a shadowy wing around Delia’s shoulders. "You don’t have to be scared. I’ll come with you."

Delia blinked, surprised. "You will? But... I thought you were so shy."

Dusk smiled faintly, tickling Delia's chin. "I am. But for you, I’ll fight it. No one will harm you again, Delia. I promise."

Delia couldn't help but giggle. "You really mean it?"

"With everything I am."

For the next few days, Delia didn’t go to school. She thought it was strange, watching the other kids in the neighborhood march off with their backpacks while she stayed behind. It wasn’t like summer vacation or a snow day: this felt different, like she was missing something important.

To pass the time, she decided to focus on something productive. She spread her math books and notebooks across the kitchen table, determined to finally conquer the subject that had always felt like her mortal enemy. Numbers swam before her eyes, mocking her no matter how hard she tried to focus.

"Ugh!" she groaned, jabbing her pencil at a particularly tricky problem. "Why is math so awful? What even is two times seven?!"

"You’re overthinking it." Dusk stated, popping up behind her.

Delia looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to answer this stuff in front of a teacher."

Dusk tilted her head, a sly smile creeping onto her face. "Want some help?"

Delia blinked. "You know math?"

"I know lots of things." Dusk said, perching lightly on the edge of the table. She leaned closer to glance at the problem, her spiraling eyes narrowing. "Two times seven? That’s fourteen. Simple."

Delia frowned. "How did you-"

"I’m whispering it to you." Dusk interrupted smoothly. "You just pretend you figured it out."

A frown spread across Delia’s face. "Wait. You’re saying you’ll give me the answers?"

"If it helps." Dusk shrugged nonchalantly. "You deserve a break, don’t you?"

Delia glanced at the page, then back at Dusk. She hesitated, her moral compass teetering, but the thought of finally getting her math right for once was too tempting. With a conspiratorial nod, she wrote down the answer Dusk had whispered.

"This feels kind of wrong." Delia muttered, though she couldn’t suppress the satisfaction bubbling inside her as the math problems started to make sense – well, at least on paper.

"It’s not wrong if no one sees." Dusk replied, her tone breezy.

And while Ophelia searched, taking appointments, Michael decided to spend his time teaching Delia. Some days they worked on her reading, but he quickly discovered that sitting at the table with books wasn’t the best way to keep her focused.

Instead, he turned to something he loved: cooking.

"Delia." he said one morning, flipping open a cookbook, "How about a different kind of lesson today? We’ll make lunch together. Cooking’s just science and math in disguise."

Delia tilted her head. "You mean, like experiments?"

"Exactly." Michael said, tying an apron around her. "But no explosions. Hopefully."

Their first attempt was scrambled eggs. Michael demonstrated how to crack the eggs, whisk them, and cook them gently over low heat.

"Your turn." he said, stepping back.

Delia approached the stove like it might bite her. "What if I mess it up?"

"Messing up’s part of learning." Michael assured her.

She cracked the egg... sort of. Half of it made it into the bowl, and the other half clung stubbornly to the shell. She groaned, but Michael only laughed ("It’s a start").

Cooking lunch became their new routine, but it wasn’t long before Michael noticed something: Delia struggled with dishes. It all seemed to just overwhelm her.

"Why does it taste so... burnt and salty?" she asked an afternoon, poking at a piece of overcooked chicken.

Michael tried to keep a straight face. "Because we’re still learning. Don’t worry, it’s edible... Mostly?"

But when they tried baking that evening, it was a completely different story: by the time muffins were in the oven, Delia was practically bouncing in place. When they came out, golden brown and smelling like heaven, Michael took a bite and blinked in surprise.

"These are... really good." he said.

Delia’s face lit up. "Better than yours?"

"Maybe." he admitted with a grin. "Looks like you’re more of a baker than a chef."

Delia puffed up with pride, dusting flour off her hands. "Can we bake something else tomorrow?"

"Only if you keep practicing your cooking too." Michael teased. "You can’t live on sweets alone, kiddo."

"But they are so much better than vegetables!" Delia argued.

And though her scrambled eggs remained lumpy and her steak a little too charred, Delia took every chance she could to bake: cookies, pancakes, even a simple cake...

The next day, after another somewhat messy attempt at sautéing those famous vegetables, Delia flopped onto the kitchen stool with a huff. "I’ll never be good like you, Daddy."

Michael chuckled, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "I’m not that great, kiddo. You should see your mom in the kitchen. She makes the best chicken: perfectly fried, crispy."

Delia’s ears perked up. "Really? Like fast food?"

"Better than fast food." Michael said, leaning on the counter. "And with homemade waffle fries. Not too thick, not too thin, perfectly seasoned." He sighed dreamily. "It’s her signature dish."

Delia gasped, sitting upright. "I need to try it! Can she make it tonight? Pleeeaaase?"

Michael smirked, crossing his arms. "You’ll have to convince her. You know how busy she’s been."

When Ophelia walked in later that evening, still unwinding from her day, Delia darted to her side, tugging on her arm.

"Mama, Mama, Daddy said you make the best chicken ever!"

Ophelia raised an eyebrow at Michael, who gave her an exaggerated wide-eyed look. "Oh, did he really?"

"And waffle fries! Real ones! Not the frozen kind!" Delia continued, her eyes shining with excitement. "Can you make it? Please? I’ll help with anything you need! I’ll even peel potatoes!"

Ophelia clutched her chest dramatically. "Peeling potatoes? My baby girl? This I have to see."

Delia nodded furiously. "I’ll do it! I swear!"

"Well..." Ophelia said, glancing at Michael. "I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve made that meal. How could I say no to my best helper?"

Soon, the kitchen was alive with activity. Ophelia showed Delia how to peel the potatoes, teaching her how to hold the peeler safely. Delia fumbled at first but soon got the hang of it, her cheeks puffing out with determination as she worked.

"Perfect." Ophelia praised, ruffling Delia’s hair. "Now, let’s cut them into waffles."

"Waffles from potatoes." Delia mused, her brows furrowing. "It’s magic."

"Just a special cutter." Ophelia countered, demonstrating how to press the potatoes through the waffle slicer. "Here, try it."

Delia pushed down with all her might, beaming when her first perfect waffle fry popped out.

When the meal was ready, they all sat down at the table together. Delia took a bite of the chicken and immediately gasped.

"This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!" she declared, crumbs falling onto her plate. "Mama, you’re a genius!"

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, pretending to look surprised. "You really think so?”

Delia nodded wildly, already reaching for another fry.

Michael pouted playfully. "What about my food? I thought it was pretty good."

Delia munched audibly. "Your food is okay, Daddy, but Mama’s chicken's better."

Michael clutched his chest in mock offense. "Betrayed by my own child."

Ophelia waved a hand. "You’ll survive."